


a lock without a key, a city without a door

by havisham



Series: The Nargothrond Series [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, Dubious Consent, Hate Sex, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Throne Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Throwing the rascals out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a lock without a key, a city without a door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ann_arien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ann_arien/gifts).



> Because 
> 
> Orodreth here is from the published Silmarillion - the son of Finarfin and the brother of Finrod.

A blow, expected though it might have been, was still a blow. Orodreth did not reel, collapse, or put his head in his hands. His hands did not suddenly become nerveless. He did not swoon, he did not weep. What he did was to get up from his seat and dismiss everyone from the room. 

The message had arrived before dawn, a crumpled, bloodstained scrap of paper tied to the leg of hawk. The hawk, with rich brown feathers and a sharp, black beak, would not suffer to be touched. It had taken three marchwardens to untie the piece of paper from her leg. Orodreth received it during breakfast, before tea. 

He recognized the letterhead as his own, from the stationery that had been abandoned when Minas Tirith had been lost. It was written in cirth. Finrod had insisted he learn it, and later he had, to impress the girl from Doriath who had later become his wife. Lúthien’s signature was scrawled in the bottom. 

It read: _Felagund is dead._

He balled it up and fed it to the fire; he watched as it disappeared into a quick lick of flame.

Meanwhile, Finduilas swallowed down her tea and looked faintly furious, but she obeyed, getting up stiffly and walking out with her head held high. Gwindor followed her out, his hands clasped lightly on her shoulders. She twisted away, impatiently, and stared at Orodreth. “Don’t you feel anything anymore?”

She left before he could reply. _Of course I do. I feel every single thing._

Soon, he was utterly alone, and he left the breakfast room in a fit of abstraction. He met Guilin in the halls, and nodded along at the idea of an extended period of mourning. It would be appropriate, fitting. Someone passed them, his shoulder bumping roughly against Orodreth’s.

A follower of Celegorm’s, the star of Fëanor stitched offensively over his bright tunic. 

Guilin and Orodreth exchanged one long glance. The follower picked up his pace and disappeared around the corner. 

“Be ready,” Orodreth said, and Guilin nodded. He had been a follower of Finarfin’s before deciding to follow Finrod across the Ice. He was old and he was canny, and the scar over his left eye gave him a vaguely rogue-ish look. It had been a souvenir of an orc blade, from the same raid that had seen his youngest son be captured.

Orodreth knew that he could be trusted; he was one of the few that could be. 

There was much to do, and before he knew it the midnight bell tolled, deep and mournful. It echoed through the empty halls, and he left his office, small and no longer appropriate for someone of his station. The brass of alidades and his prized theodolites gleamed in the fitful light of his lamp. Around him were the maps of Beleriand, and more detailed ones of the Talath Dirnen. 

He had had a hand in making all of them. Orodreth only come to Middle-earth because of Finrod, he had been determined to follow his elder brother’s footsteps. Though in his heart, it had seemed to him that his father’s way was best. Orodreth had watched as his father and those who followed him (a pitifully small group, compared to those who would push forward) dwindled into a dark blur in the horizon.

Orodreth closed his eyes, and wanted, more than anything, to take a step towards them. If he ran fast, he could catch up, in a few more days of marching, they could be in Tirion. He could see his mother again... 

He felt a firm hand on his shoulder. “Artaresto, will you go forward?” 

Finrod was there, a small smile on his face. Already, the air had become bitterly cold, and they had begun to wrap themselves up in their cloaks and scarves and belts. Finrod’s face was barely visible in the murk, but his eyes held a steady sparkle that warmed Orodreth’s heart. He had always loved Finrod best, he had always valued the time when it had only been him and Finrod. 

“Yes,” he said, “I will go forward, with you to lead me.” 

Finrod nodded, and gave him a look that was as warm as the wind was cold. Orodreth was convinced that he had made the right choice. 

+

Orodreth reached for his -- ha, the keys to the kingdom -- slim keys, of silver, gold, and mithril that opened all the doors in Nargothrond. When Finrod had abdicated -- when he had taken off his crown and thrown it down, his keys had also been flung away, and had landed near Orodreth’s feet. He had bent down, and taken them up. He had not looked at Finrod then, he couldn’t, right then. 

The keys clicked gently in his hands, and he found himself at the doors of the throne-room. The throne room had never been locked, before. The doors opened with one hand, with just one push. A sweet-smelling rush of air greeted him, warm against his face. After Finrod had left, Orodreth had chosen to go about the business of ruling from his offices. 

That was to say, what little ruling he could do. 

There were many in Nargothrond who did not recognize Orodreth’s right to rule -- which meant, they bowed to him, but looked to the sons of Fëanor for aught else. 

He could see them now, his half-cousins, Curufin and Celegorm, together and apart. There was Curufin, dark and sleek, whose hands were always blackened and cracked from the forge. But no one looked at his hands when he spoke, for when he spoke, Fëanor spoke, and strings of persuasion, need, compulsion tightened around the listeners, and hurled them forward to doom and dark deeds. 

Celegorm, on the surface of it, was simpler man than his brother. His skin was always tanned from days on the hunt. But it was a mistake to underestimate him, to watch Curufin only, to forget the flash of metal and the sudden inrush of blood, and breaking bone. 

Orodreth hated them both. 

Hate was a novel emotion for him. In Valinor, under the light of the Trees, Orodreth could not remember hating anyone. Even in Beleriand, with memories of the Ice still sharp and cold in his mind, he had accepted the realities of life here. Forgive, forget. Save your hate for Morgoth, and his creatures. But even Orcs were more objects to be pitied than hated, and it was a kindness to dispatch them as quickly as possible. 

And afterwards -- well, who knew? 

Finrod loved -- Finrod had loved to draw out knotty problems like this out, while sitting by the fire, teasing out a melody from his harp. One thing was not enough for him, never could Orodreth remember his brother being content at doing only one thing at a time. His mind always went far ahead everyone else’s, and circled back, to wait for those of a slower comprehension. 

(And everyone was slower -- save Galadriel only.) 

If you killed an Orc, where did their fëa go? Did they go to Mandos? Could their fëar ever be cleansed? 

Impossible to know, on this side of the sea.

To Orodreth, who did not relish asking questions that had no settled answer, such sessions were to be valued because of Finrod and his proximity. Orodreth had never adequately gotten over his childhood instinct to hero-worship his elder brother. 

But then again, Finrod had been so easy to adore, to admire, to emulate. And Orodreth did try to emulate him, with little success. He could never measure up, he was but a pale copy of what now had passed.

He was nothing in comparison. 

“How still you are, cousin, how quiet, like a little mouse,” said a voice behind him, and Orodreth looked sharply to the bank of shadows near the throne. A shade detached itself from the shadows, and resolved itself into the shape of Curufin, his cousin, his usurper.

Curufin stepped forward and raised his hand, as if to touch Orodreth’s arm, but Orodreth took a step backward. 

_Do not touch me, he wanted to say. Do not presume to speak to me as if you know me._ He said nothing. It was as if his tongue had dried up in his mouth. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and glared with as much heat he could muster. 

Curufin smiled, that snake, that smile, he smirked and said nothing, and said with his eyes and the particular twist in his mouth, what can you do? _Nothing, nothing, you are powerless, helpless, weak. A mouse, indeed._

Orodreth thought that he might be trembling, more out of anger than fear. Curufin stepped close to him, and raked him over with hot eyes. Orodreth took a step back. They were close in height, it was possible to look at him, eye-to-eye. 

Orodreth managed to strangle out -- “Y-you must --” He stopped and blushed. In his youth, he had had a tendency to stutter when over-excited or nervous, but though assiduous training (and encouragement from his parents and Finrod) he had gotten over it fairly well. A tide of shame washed over him, that he should fall into that old habit now, and with such an hostile audience? 

Curufin looked at him, politely attentive. “Pardon?” 

Orodreth mastered himself, and said, sternly, “Surely you know that it is impossible for you to remain here. Any of you.” 

“Oh? And will you be able to do it, you think? Will enough people obey you?” 

“They will. Already the tide turns for you, murderers of kin, and ungrateful guests both. Your hands are stained with blood.” 

Curufin made a derisive noise, “You did not mind the condition of my hands when my brother and I rescued you after your ignominious retreat from Minas Tirith.” 

“T-That is not the same, y-you betrayed my brother, your f-friend --”

Flatly, Curufin said, “He was not my friend.” 

If Finrod had not been Curufin’s friend, then he had been something else entirely. Orodreth was not naively simple, whatever anyone might think. He had seen -- well, something, when he would come into rooms, unlooked for, and had caught Curufin and Finrod in close council. Or what they said was close council, though their mussed hair and wrinkled clothes might give lie to that assertion. 

Orodreth could not understand it. Why had Finrod let himself be so compromised? What had he gotten out of it? For Curufin, the advantages seemed clear -- and Orodreth supposed his wickedness provided any gaps in motivation. 

He knew that if he had asked Finrod, his brother would have provided him with an adequate, perhaps even satisfying explanation. He had known his brother had been lonely, that he had longed for someone who was as clever as he was. 

And Curufin was certainly very clever. 

Suddenly, the door was thrown open, and Celegorm strode in, with a large dog nipping at his heels. The dog had long, dark fur, and sharp, flashing teeth. He was very impressive, but for all that, he was not Huan, and Celegorm dismissed him without a look. 

Celegorm was very impressive himself, and seemed to know it well. His hair was bound back severely away from his face, and though he was immaculately dressed, there were bits of grass stuck to his boots, and a fresh color on his cheeks, as if he had just come inside. The brothers exchanged a long look, and then turned their attention back to Orodreth, who had begun to back away. 

Celegorm said in a loud and aggressively cheerful voice, “What’s this you’ve been saying, cousin? Do you really mean put us out?” And he smiled, as if there was some misunderstanding that they were sure to clear up between them. 

“Yes I do,” Orodreth, whose back bumped sharply against the throne, the armrest digging into his back. Curufin took another step forward, his nose nearly touching Orodreth’s. Orodreth’s eyes were wide, almost bewildered, and Celegorm chuckled and shook his head. 

He looked to his brother and said, “How he is shaking!” 

Curufin said, “Like a plate of jelly.” 

They shared a moment of amusement, and then continued their scrutiny of Orodreth. Who found that he could not stand it, that he was wilting, that he was fading into nothing. 

His voice was petulant enough to make him flinch. “What you would you in my position?” 

“Throw you to the wolves.” 

“Change the locks behind you.” 

“Let no one speak your name ever again.” 

Silence. They stared at him. Orodreth stared back. 

 

He closed his eyes for a moment. Oh forgive me, Findaráto, forgive me! 

“Of course,” Orodreth said, rallying his courage, “You were in my position, were you not? When your brother Maedhros was taken? And what did you do then?” Curufin and Celegorm said nothing, and nothing was also the answer. They had abandoned their brother to torment and death, as Orodreth had done with his. 

He jerked up his chin and looked at them defiantly. 

Curufin chuckled, a dark sound. “Why, the little mouse has teeth! Do you not think so, Tyelkormo?” 

Celegorm tutted judiciously. “Curufinwë, don’t play with your food, it’s cruel.” 

“I am n-not your food,” Orodreth said, inching back a little more, until he sat -- or rather, he fell into the seat of throne. Curufin swooped down, his lips brushing gently against Orodreth’s cheek.

Celegorm was on his other side, and he pulled back Orodreth’s hair with a swift jerk, baring his throat. Orodreth shook himself loose from Celegorm’s grip, and glared. His fingers touched the place where Celegorm touched him. He could imagine the bloodstain on his skin. 

“Dear idiot cousin,” Curufin murmured, his eyes downcast, his mouth trembling. With mirth? With something else entirely? 

“I am not him,” Orodreth said, his teeth bared. He was not, he could not be. 

Curufin only shook his head and smiled.

Celegorm made a bored noise, things without feathers or fur rarely kept his attention long. He leaned heavily against the upholstery of the chair and took off his gloves. His hands were very fair, surprisingly so for all the time he spent out in the sun, and in the skin between his glove and cuff, lay a ring of dirt. 

Orodreth stared at it, and then looked up to Celegorm’s face. 

Celegorm could not hold his gaze for long. He gave a laugh, a loud laugh that echoed in the empty throne-room. Ruefully, he said, “Why do you fight with us, cousin? We have heard of your conspiracies with Guilin. It will come to nothing, the support for you is simply not there.” 

His fair hands touched Orodreth’s face, and Orodreth twitched. Celegorm smirked, and dropped his hand. They both looked now to Curufin, who had been silent too long, looking thoughtful. 

“Perhaps,” he said slowly, as if thinking very hard, “perhaps there is a compromise that could be made.” 

“I will not have any further dealings with you,” said Orodreth, too quickly.

“Hear me out,” Curufin said mildly. “You must admit, your people and ours have mixed rather thoroughly. There are marriages and business contracts, births and lawsuits, they have become one. Would you exile a father from his family for the sin of following me?” 

“Well, no... But you cannot stay!” Orodreth thought that there was a whining note in his voice, and he was ashamed. 

Curufin gave him a thin smile. “Brat. I am not talking about me.” 

“But wait,” Celegorm said, looking confused. “Curvo, you do not mean to say that you agree with him that we ought to be exiled? I must remain here, Huan may return --” He lapsed into silence, in the face of his brother’s growing ire. 

Curufin looked as if he had swallowed something unpleasant. “You are both very -- obtuse. Artafindë would have no problem understanding me.” At Orodreth’s look of outrage, Curufin held up his hand, signaling peace.

“I do not care for your suggestions,” Orodreth said, trying to rise from his seat. Celegorm put a heavy hand on one of his shoulders, and Curufin put a light one on another. 

Curufin said mildly, “What is the harm in listening?” 

Orodreth raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Is this what you call it? Holding me down like this?” Celegorm let him go and took a step backwards, but Curufin stepped forward, almost eagerly, his face hovering near Orodreth’s. 

“Oh yes, and the way you struggle so valiantly against it, I would almost wager you liked it.” 

Orodreth’s lips curled derisively, “I do not share your proclivities.” 

“And how insolently you say it! If we were not as we are now, I would have you thrashed for that. And besides, if they are my proclivities, they were your brother’s too. Or do you still believe that he could do nothing wrong?”

Orodreth flushed deeply, and opened his mouth. Nothing came out. 

With a considerable grace, Curufin knelt down on his knee, and looked at him appealingly. His hands strayed to Orodreth’s thighs. Orodreth, recovering somewhat, said, somewhat shakily, “Is this what you wish to do? Your brother forced his attentions on a woman who did not want him, and now you wish to sell yourself to man who hates you.” 

Slightly bored, Curufin said, “Do you hate me?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I do not want your love.” 

Celegorm, growing bored of all of this talk, had wandered away to find out what had become of his companion. But still, he offered this bit of wisdom to Orodreth.“Will you just get on with it? You’ve been half-mast for almost all of this time, and the day’s wasting.” 

Another humiliation. Curufin laughed and Orodreth burned. Curufin caught his chin with his long fingers and kissed him. Orodreth’s head spun with a cascade of contradictory thoughts, he knew that he should push his cousin away, he should call this for what it was, an outrage, an assault on his good nature and his good name. 

Instead, Orodreth kissed him back. 

He knew he shouldn’t do this, give in to this sordid offer, whatever Finrod had done, but he felt a sudden need to wipe the smirk from Curufin’s face. He was quite convinced that this was the reason that most people did anything with Curufin. 

And his cousin thought that he would be frightened, that he would break. 

But Orodreth knew that he would not. 

Celegorm stepped forward, and Orodreth spun between them both, touched, stripped, exposed. They pushed him back into the throne, and he allowed it, though he noticed that he was the only one who ended up naked in this encounter. He would not be embarrassed by it. He had nothing to be ashamed of, though his skin grew heated and reddened under their touches, in defiance of his thoughts. 

Curufin and Celegorm, of course, worked well in concert. 

No word passed between them, or glance. Orodreth wondered if they had done this before, and with whom. With Finrod …? No, no, he would not think of it. He closed his eyes, and leaned back. Unwillingly, a moan escaped from his lips as Curufin’s tongue skimmed his inner thigh. 

“Suck me and perhaps I’ll let you stay,” Orodreth said to him, unnecessarily. Celegorm growled low, and pressed his hand against Orodreth’s throat, but Curufin smiled, and compiled. 

And when that was done, Orodreth raked his hand over Curufin’s hair and pulled up his head up roughly. Curufin licked his lips, and his expression was amused, challenging. Then, Celegorm smoothly took his brother’s place. 

“Dear cousin,” he said, “will you waste this opportunity as well?”

“No,” Orodreth said, leaning back with a sigh. “I swear that I will not.” 

+

Some oaths, as it turned out, were easier to keep than others.

+

Orodreth was formally crowned, with much fanfare. He sat on his brother’s throne, and he looked the part. He felt it too, the surety of a scepter in his hand, the weight of the crown on his head. Finduilas put a hand on his shoulder, and gave him a hopeful smile. He smiled back and then glanced at Gwindor, and Celebrimbor behind him. 

“Let them in,” he told Guilin, and the door opened to let the two sons of Fëanor in. A hush fell across the throne room as the brothers walked to him. They did not bow, but then again, Orodreth did not expect them to do so. 

Orodreth only stumbled over his words for a moment, when he pronounced their sentence. Celegorm flexed his fingers, as if he wished to run his hands through thick fur. Curufin watched, no trace of humor in his eyes, or his mouth. 

This time, he was the one who delivered the blow, expected though it was.

He hoped it hurt them, he hoped they never forgot it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta, Elleth!


End file.
